


A Shower of Blessings

by Stakebait



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even vampires have to wash somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot and Wet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zyre](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Zyre).



> Spoilers through Seeing Red

Crypts do not have plumbing, and vampires don't sweat, don't piss, don't wake up with crumbs to be splashed out of the eyes and fur on the tongue. It's the perfect combination, Spike thinks. Except, of course, for the fine film of fresh-turned earth from the world's highest-turnover graveyard, and the ripe pungent spores grown on wet, dank stone that sift down over him like spider silk when he rests. Except for the taste of blood and whiskey and ammonia-cured tobacco, unnatural and sharp. Except for the fact that cold blood and ichor and ketchup land just as often on the unjust as the just.

He heard the Scoobies talking about it, one time, that summer, when they were all still trying to pretend it was the same as it used to be. It was something safe to riff on, "Why don't vampires get dirty?" Something to help them skirt around the dirt covering their own dead, and all the empty cold clean places left that they didn't want to recognize.

Spike had doubled up with silent laughter on the Summers' porch. Willow, of course, thought it was magic. Tara thought it was s-s-something like buttered toast and cat feet? The order of the universe? Harris thought it was Murphy. Dawn thought it was a consolation prize – lose a soul, get permanent deodorant.

The truth was, black doesn't show stains much. And once or twice a week – more back when the Slayer'd been payin' him social calls -- Spike went to the Y.

It was quite a comedown from the old days, when luxury hotels were just a matter of killin' the bellboy. But Spike grew to find it comforting after a while. As a routine, it had its compensations. People who didn't ask questions, for whom a foxxed, stolen card was enough to prove he had as good a right to be there as anyone. A locker of his very own, to hold the few things that didn't fit the vampire image, or that he couldn't bear for Buffy to find. High ceilings, cool tiles, old plaster rosettes from the days when nothing was made simple clashing with the scarred steel stalls. Hot water, scalding even, in a stinging mist or running down his body in rivulets. The stink of chlorine from the pool, as homey as hair bleach.

And through the clouds of steam, the boys.

He loved Buffy, that went without saying – at least, it did except when she'd been in the throws of desperation or orgasm and couldn't stop him any longer. He'd adored Dru, the shining will o' the wisp that led him on to strange adventures, pain, and pleasure. He'd worshipped Cecily. And his mum… enough of that. All the really important loves of his life had been women, was the point. Spike was a ladies' man, by inclination if not talent. But the boys came first.

Boys had meant escape, when his da died and he'd been trapped in a tiny house, just that side of gentility, with his sad-eyed mother, and neighbors who, once the funeral was past, seldom called and never stayed. But he could still run off with the neighborhood lads and wrestle in the stable yard. And so what if he lost, or tore his blacks, or even made his mother cry. She was always crying anyway and at least someone was noticing him, not looking through him like he was a memory or a reflection. He'd come home panting, one eye blacked because all William ever had going for him in a fight was enthusiasm, and grinning. They had touched him. He was real.

Boys had meant comfort when he went away to school and every day added to the seemingly endless list of things William couldn't do. Classes were all right, but nobody much cared about those. He was hopeless at games, always flinching and twitching and remembering too late to reach towards the ball instead of away. His hands were soft, and bruised easily, and how they'd had laughed. But at night there were uses for softness. And he'd adored fagging for an older boy, never grudged toiling over his errands or his lessons or his piss-hard cock in the mornings. William didn't even mind being caned, so long as he was claimed.

And then there had been Angel. Spike didn't care to think about Angel. Better to think about boys around him, loose-limbed after swimming or basketball or whatever the hell that was in the little white rooms, serious and silent and so very, very young. Flickering sidelong glances said is he, am I, I wish, the line between envy and desire fading in and out like the sight of slick warm limbs in the steam.

He never touched. He was afraid to risk this place. If he couldn't come here, where would he go? To Buffy, show her the muck that ruined the cool, untouchable, unbreakable surface that was all she'd wanted to see of him? To Giles, again, for charity, beggin' to be let back in to the tub he'd been chained in? No. Fuck that. Better to keep his hands off and be prudent, for once in his bloody life. Surely by now he should have learned. But Spike basked in the eyes running down his body, stroking his arms, his stomach, his cock, wanting to be him, wanting to taste the harsh pure soap sliding over his skin that was, for this once, as warm as their own. He wasn't soft any more.

Spike looked up. He could feel a gaze that wasn't turning away, almost a stare. There – hard blue eyes, in a face that was scruffy and no longer young. Slender, but with muscles that had nothing to do with rules and bloody expensive sneakers. Scars at the stomach and the throat, and Spike licked his lips. Someone had got a bloody feast out of this one. His hands twitched to kill them, whoever they were, and take it back.

The stranger's eyes followed Spike's tongue and he nodded, once, then turned and lead the way into the back room, the disused showers piled high with old wood benches, metal stacking chairs, and all the detritus of institutional living. Spike shrugged and followed. The man had misunderstood his gesture, clearly, but what the hell. Not like it was the first time. Maybe it was fate. Anyway it was a way to pass the time.

He turned the corner and the man was there, pressing him into the cold tile wall. Spike could feel the heat seeping out of his back. The man's cock was hard, and pressed into his hip. He brought his own hands up to rest on the bloke's hips and anchor him there.

"You're a vampire," he said. All right, maybe he *hadn't* misunderstood the gesture, was Spike's first thought. Closely followed by, "you don't seem to mind."

"Shouldn't you be trying to kill me?" The man's voice, more hoarse than loud, still echoed off the tile.

"D'you want me to?" Spike was honestly curious. The chip might even let him bite a bloke who honestly thought he was makin' the pain *stop*. Or if he was goin' to slit his wrists *anyway*, no sense in the good stuff goin' to waste...

The other man shrugged. "It would have made things… simpler." His hips shifted into Spike's, just brushing their erections together, and Spike lost track of the conversation.

"Right… things…" he breathed. He leaned in to catch the man's scent, still there under the clean surface of soap and sweat and desire. He always did like guts. Spike was about 30 seconds from burying himself balls-deep in this bloke, and asking permission later. But he wanted to know who he was fucking first. There. Antiseptic and leather and liquor, dust and books, gunpowder and baby spit-up and blood and … Angel.

Spike shoved the bloke back away from him and let go. "Got a fetish, or a death wish? Or are you just a groupie? I don't take sloppy seconds, mate." Not again, anyway. Not for a one-hour stand, not for a stranger. For fuck's sake, was this his own version of the curse? He turned to walk away, back into the locker room of light and noise, when a flat voice stopped him.

"That's not what I've heard."

He stopped dead, well of course he stopped dead, he did everything dead, but the point was that he'd stopped, and he hadn't meant to. But he didn't turn round. He could at least manage that much.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Spike said flatly.

"I took his son."

Spike was aware, vaguely, that that wasn't an answer, but he had bigger things on his mind.

"He has a son?"

"Had."

Spike felt rushes of emotion in his blood, one folding into another like the tide coming in. Jealousy, hate, smug satisfaction, pleasure. When his face was under control he turned around again, cocking his head to survey the other man.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he repeated, but this time his voice was alight with innuendo, teasing with offers not quite unspoken enough. That was better than the ring, even, for taking something he wanted and leaving him to live without it. Some things deserved a reward.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. I took his son." There was a queer, defiant pride in the repetition and the strange half-smile, as if the man were playing a part. "I want," his tone emphasized the word slightly, "to do it again."

"How many bloody sons has he got? Vampires aren't s'posed to need condoms, y'know. And what's it got to do with me?"

Spike was beginning to suspect that the whole come on had been nothing more than an excuse to get him alone, but his cock remained – stupidly – hard, and if this bloke wanted his help he was gonna find a good shag was the first condition on the list. Spike was also starting to wish for his cigarettes, tucked in a boot and locked safely away across half an acre of puddled tile.

"Only one left." The man took a step closer and ran a finger down Spike's naked chest, linger over the heart in a casual way that made him shiver – and *that* just made him harder. One of these days Spike really should have a bit of a sit down with his cock and try to explain that death threats were not something to seek out. One day.

"Grandson." Spike said briefly. Not that that was a sore spot.

"Son, in every way that matters. Trust me."

Spike blinked at him, honestly bewildered. "Why the hell would I do that?"

The other man started to laugh and Spike, after a moment, joined in.

"Still want to fuck you though," he said conversationally into the suddenly charged silence that followed.

The look the other man – Wesley – gave him was appraising. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll fuck you."

Spike caught him by the shoulders, spun him about and slammed his back against the wall.

"Perhaps you bloody well won't." Spike said, although to tell the truth the thought of that pretty cock slipping inside him didn't sound too bad. Not until the bloke had learned his lesson, though. He teased the other man's opening with the tip of his cock. "That what you meant by takin' me? 'Cause I've got something else in mind."

This time Wesley's laugh was a little breathless. "Such as?"

This was an awkward position, considering the bloke was technically taller than him. By at least 4 inches. Four aching inches that wanted to be buried in the hot, tight arse of the man in front of him, without goin' up on tiptoe to do it. Spike solved the problem by seizing Wesley by the back of the neck and shoving him to his hands and knees on the floor.

Before he could do more than catch himself, Spike was on him and slid himself inside, thanking luck for the dripping remains of hot soapy water that made this even possible because bloody hell, the man was tight. He stayed motionless for a minute, until he was sure he wouldn't come.

"I suppose that's a family trait." Wesley mused aloud.

"What is?" Spike was annoyed, or would be if the man hadn't tightened about him just so and left him a bit distracted.

"Choosing action when one is at a loss for words. Angel—"

Spike growled. "Don't talk about him."

Wesley glanced back over his shoulder, meeting Spike's eyes provocatively. "You'd prefer me to close my eyes and simply pretend you're him?"

Spike felt his vampire features slide down into place. He spun the other man around, laid him flat on his back with his cock still deep inside. "Look at me." His yellowed eyes locked on Wesley's, daring him to look away.

Wesley didn't dare. Spike fucked him, hard, holding him down, licking and nipping at the scar on his throat. Wesley whimpered in frustration, which only got him that little bit harder.

Spike reached down to tease Wesley's cock with a single fingertip. "Want something?"

"Muuh?"

Spike grinned. That was actually rather adorable. "If you want me to do something," he clarified, "you have to ask. If not… I could just stop."

"Don't stop," Wesley said immediately. He struggled against Spike's grasp, then gave a happy little sigh when he discovered he was firmly held.

Spike gave Wesley's length a quick, hard squeeze. "What do you want?"

Wesley took a deep breath. "Make me come."

Spike quirked an eyebrow at him. "Sure I can do that?"  
Part of him, a tiny part, hated how many of Angelus' little tricks he'd picked up. But they worked.

Wesley's eyes were wide and dark as he looked up at him. "Fuck me like that," he said clearly, "and I think you could make me do anything"

Spike groaned and thrust harder, bit harder, courting the edge of a chip explosion in his head because dammit, sometimes the pain was the point and he knew that even if the soldierboys didn't. And people didn't proposition vampires because they liked it gentle. Wesley was twisting under him; he'd be bruised tomorrow but he was still bucking his hips up for more and still staring into his eyes, falling in, blue like Buffy. Those thin lips were swollen and parted, murmuring Spike, Spike, don't stop, please. And distantly Spike thought "so he does know my name" as he came.

When Spike could think straight again he realized he'd stopped moving, and that Wesley hadn't. Writhing right on the edge, the other man was impaling himself further on Spike's softening cock, thrusting ineffectually forward into his motionless hand, looking for some sort of stimulation that might bring him off. Spike grinned. This could be entertaining.

"Tell me you want me."

"Want you." Wesley's voice was desperately sincere, and Spike smiled and rewarded him with a single stroke of his cock.

"Tell me you need me."

"Need you." The reply was immediate and rewarded with another stroke.

Spike licked suddenly dry lips. He *wasn't* going to ask the next question. It was ridiculous. They'd just met. But Wesley's eyes were hazy with worship and his mouth silently formed the words anyway. Spike kissed him deep and long before he could take them back. He worked at Wesley's cock with hands that never cramped and all the tricks of public school and every lonely, frustrated moment since, and it was only a moment before the other man arched up and shot into his hand.

They lay silent for a long moment. And then Spike stood and looked down at the man below him. "Are you going to stake me?" he asked finally, because he had to say something, wondering if the man had secreted a weapon somewhere in the impressive pile of junk nearby.

"It hardly… seems necessary." Wesley's voice was even hoarser than ever.

Spike looked down at the limp and satisfied body stretched out on the tile below him. "He's a fool," he said roughly, and walked out into the steam.

It took him a long, long time to scrub himself clean all over again, and when he finished, the boys had long gone. He slicked back his hair, thankful there was no one to notice the lack of even a blurred reflection in the wall of mirrors. It only took two and half cigarettes to get to the Slayer's place and he walked in whistling. No one was home but her, and by the sound of it she was in the shower. Spike smiled. He'd had good luck with showers today.


	2. Clean Hands

  
The vibrations from the bike jarred Wesley's over-sensitized skin, but he didn't pull over till he was safe home – as safe as he could be, in the spot where Justine had slit his throat, as safe as he'd be anywhere. He never considered leaving: he valued the reminder of the park outside his windows. But he did wonder, sometimes, if the flowers would be stained red, come summer.

Wesley didn't stop moving until he got inside, behind spells kept fresh and locks kept oiled and easy to pick. Nothing to see here, boys. Nothing left to take.

Wesley poured himself a drink, then hurled it, untasted, to shatter against the door – as if anything had trapped him but his own will and bloody sense of duty. Amazing, really, how that still survived, still scuttling about like a cockroach after the more mundane sort of apocalypse, building its little tunnels through the ruins, doing what was necessary.

He sat down at the desk, stared unseeing at the ruled paper, covered in an arcane algebra of symbols. It was all simple enough, if one knew where to look. It all balanced. Take this from one side, you must take it from the other, so. This cancels that, till only the irreducible terms remain.

Angel's son must save the world.

There is always more than one way to prophecy. Dozens, sometimes. Hundreds. Inevitability doesn't hang by a single thread, but by a web. It was Wesley who cut the cord that bound Connor to this world, and useless to plead that it wasn't his intention. The road to Hell and all that, as Angel should know.

And now his son would follow in his footsteps. Both of them.

It wasn't so hard, after all, to find the fork in the road that would take Spike to his soul. Wesley had checked and rechecked his work. There was no one to step in, this time; he couldn't afford to make another mistake.

A little harder to determine what Wesley, of all people, could do to set him on that path. One of Lilah's connections, a psychic bribed, an unpleasant concoction drunk at bedtime to sensitize his dreams. He'd never needed to see the Slayer naked, however pleased he might once have been to see her plead. But he knew, then, what he had to tell the vampire, and where, and how. Water falling like tears. A push to the ground.

"You could make me do anything."

The bitch of it, the true bitch that made Cordelia look like a saint and Lilah a child, was, it wasn't even a lie. One word, right then, with Spike buried so deep inside him he could feel every twitch and groan, and Wesley would have spilled his guts, again, would have told the whole plan and every secret he possessed into the bargain. Not because the vampire could be trusted – if he had ever had illusions about that, they had choked to death on hypoallergenic foam. Only because he wanted, and for Wesley, that was enough.

But it didn't matter, what he wanted, how he felt, as long as he got on with the job. Pride was something he could not, any longer, afford. So he used his body because that's what was needed and what he had, a tool to be used and broken, like any other. And there would be others, of course there would, before this was done. There was one, already, crying on the floor somewhere in Sunnydale. Wesley felt the cool tile again under his hands and tried to tell himself this was not revenge.

His cheeks were hot. Wesley pressed his fingers to them, feeling the bite of the stubble. He wished he had the glass back unbroken. But he wished that about a lot of things.


End file.
